by James Calder
“Bill?” she said into the silence. “Aren’t you going to tell me how wrong and superficial I am? You always have an answer for everything.”
“I don’t have an answer, Jenny. I don’t know what else I can do but keep on driving with my eyes closed.”
It was a phrase I’d used when we first met, at a point when my life had been tossed like a salad. Her voice grew softer, concerned. “I know you’re doing what seems right, Bill, and that’s a good thing. I’ve always liked that about you. Just please don’t crash.”
“Thanks, Jenny. I’ll call to reschedule the dinner as soon as there’s some kind of conclusion to this Rod business.”
“I wish you all the luck in the world,” she said, and hung up. The message from Wendy had been waiting on my voicemail afterward. She sugared her voice and apologized for being mistaken about Alissa again; she could have sworn her daughter was back in town.
“I’ve got a line on her in Arizona,” Wendy’s message continued. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with that girl. She’s acting very strangely. I was so shocked by the news about Rod. I’m really, really sorry, I know you were fast friends. People have strange inner demons, don’t they? Well, I’ve got to go. I had really hoped to speak to you in person. I’ll be on the road, but I guess you know how to reach me. Of course, I’ll do anything I can to help. Ta-ta for now.”
I banged the phone down, then called in for my voicemail again, noted the time of the message, and made sure it was saved. Then I phoned Mike. He wasn’t in his office, but I got him on his mobile. He’d received a message from Wendy, too, the same kind of thing. I asked if he had any way to trace it. He said his caller ID indicated it came from a pay phone. I had him give me the number.
“She was just covering herself, don’t you think?” I said. “It would look bad if she split town without calling. She made sure neither of us picked up. She figured you wouldn’t be in the office on Saturday, and with me she just got lucky. My outgoing voice-mail message gives my mobile number, yet she didn’t use it.”
“I guess so, Bill. Hey, I’m sorry but I can’t talk. I’m with the Sylvain lawyers.”
“I’m going to the police station. I’ll talk to you later.”
I thought about Wendy’s call on my way down the Peninsula. The entire reason I had a new cell phone, with film work getting so sparse in the Bay Area, was not to miss calls. I’d thrown away my previous one after my short, unhappy foray into the tech business. The phone broke due to a collision with a wall. Wendy knew that people around here didn’t answer their land lines anymore, and took a calculated risk. She would have hung up if she’d gotten me real-time.
The day’s string of unsuccesses continued at the police station. I showed the card Mike had given me for Detective Coharie at the front. They said he wasn’t working today. Wasn’t he supposed to be solving the Rod Glaser murder? I asked. This brought a glare and eventually, after a long wait, an interview with an on-duty detective. He nodded as I spoke, jotted the number of Wendy’s pay phone, stared at his pad, and offered a perfunctory thank you. I said I wasn’t finished yet. When I tried to outline the connections between Silicon Glamour, Rod, Sylvain, and Plush, he interrupted to thank me again and tell me the detectives knew how to do their job. I had the feeling he’d been warned not to listen to me—more of Rupert’s handiwork.
The next place I swung and missed was the hotel where Rod’s mother was staying. She didn’t answer her phone and I could do no more than leave a message at the front desk. Strike three. I headed back up to the city to see if I had any clean clothes to wear for our date tonight, wondering how many outs I had left.
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Most of my expectations about our dates proved wrong. They did not call me and Wes “gentlemen.” They did not maintain that either we or they were “high class.” They gave no come-hither looks and let no lace peek out from under seams. They treated us like we were just a couple of guys they knew and we were all out for a pleasant and proper night on the town. I kept reminding myself that this was the result of training, and the training had been good.
Erika had a natural look. Her face was broad, open, and wholesome, her hair the color of freshly cut hay. She came across as the kind of hearty, athletic woman you might get to go skinny-dipping with if you were really lucky. She wore a sheer outer layer over a simple designer T-shirt, with a print skirt. Her friend Noela’s pencil-lined eyes glinted with a more impish disposition. She wore a dark silk blouse, silver jewelry, and hip-hugging black pants.
We met them at a dinner club in San Jose, a retro place that had lost some of its charm because it knew retro was hip. The lounge was festive, with white lights strung across the ceiling and a parquet dance floor. We ate in the dining room, where the food was overpriced and the tablecloths too thick.
Wes and I bumped into each other doing things like pulling out chairs for our dates. I sat across from Erika. When she introduced herself, I’d swallowed a comment about having met before. I knew her voice; it had been the one speaking to Alissa’s answering machine when I was inside the apartment.
Wes sat opposite Noela. He ordered a Manhattan and the table was inspired to follow suit. Noela had a healthy gulp of hers, but the level in Erika’s glass decreased little in spite of her frequent sips, which she took with a smile.
I’d prepared a few opening lines, but Erika beat me to it with the first rule of dating: Let your date talk about himself. “So,” she said, “tell us about your work!”
The effect on Wes was immediate. He talked about his company, which round of financing they were in, the excellence of their software, and their plans for expansion, as if offering a prospectus for investing in it—or in him as a mate. I was slightly embarrassed, but I knew it came from a nervousness about himself. He was a nerd at heart who felt he had to go out of his way to prove his bona fides in the “real” world.
Erika and Noela offered a picture of perfect fascination. They were also courteous enough not to leave me out. When Wes finally paused for air, Erika asked me what I did.
“I make films,” I said suavely.
“What kind of films?” Noela said with nothing more than polite interest.
“Action-packed Silicon Valley stuff. You know, scheming CEO’s, top-secret tech—in fact, you probably could tell me a lot about it. I’ll bet you’ve met some crafty execs in your time.”
Erika gave a giggle that went on a fraction of a second too long. “I really don’t know very many CEO’s. What happens in your story?”
“Well, maybe you can help me with it. We could use some consultants.”
This brought laughs from both Erika and Noela. “Oh, the movie business is too slick for us,” Noela said.
“Actually, my films are nonfiction. Well, as nonfictional as a corporate show can be. I do industrials and image pieces for companies in the Valley. The last one I did was for a guy named Rod Glaser.”
I saw a brief contraction in Erika’s eyes. She covered it quickly. This would be a delicate operation. I pulled back and said, “So, what movies have you seen lately? Anything good?” The question would take a good half hour to answer and would tell me something about the two.
“You know what’s cool?” Noela said. “Those old James Bond movies, with Sean Connery. I’ve been watching them on DVD. He’s so sexy.”
Wes got excited. “I loved James Bond. I had a 007 lunch-box and—” He stopped short as it dawned on him he was dating himself. “You know what else, Austin Powers is really funny.”
“Yeah!” Noela agreed. “That’s why I started watching the old Bonds. Austin cracks me up. He’s such a barney.”
“We could shoot a groovy episode in this place.” Wes gestured to the other room. “It’s the right era, right?”
“It’d be perfect!” Noela said.
“I thought that updated Romeo and Juliet movie was good,” Erika said. “You know, the one by the guy who did Moulin Rouge?”
“It was pretty interes
ting—the camera angles, the editing,” I agreed, then realized I sounded like a film geek. “How about actors—who’s your favorite?”
“I had the hugest crush on Leonardo when I was a teenager,” she went on. “Now I think Vin Diesel is pretty hot.”
“Right on,” Noela agreed. “And Wesley Snipes.”
The half hour passed and then some. Our dinner came, surf and turf, and I heard about the relative merits of young movie stars: which one was too seedy and which one too pretty, which too full of himself and which just right. There was a brief detour into music. Noela and Erika had their differences on hip-hop; Erika was more into the new loud bands. Again Wes and I dated ourselves by recalling their forebears, who themselves had been inspired by an earlier generation. We were in the era of third-degree retro.
On the whole I considered the diversion a success, since our dates seemed to have forgotten their job for a little while. Erika caught my quietness, though, and asked me, “What’s your favorite movie, Bill? And why?”
I thought about what she’d relate to, or what would impress her, and then decided the hell with it. She’d proven herself good at seeing through bullshit. “There’s an old Hitchcock film that always gets me. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve seen it. Shadow of a Doubt.” I tried to explain how what got me was the way this teenage girl named Charlie has a big, though innocent, crush on her uncle, played by Joseph Cotten. She’s unwilling, right up until the last moment, to believe he’s a murderer who would betray her.
“I’d like to see it,” Erika said.
“I’ve never heard of those people,” Noela said. “It sounds creepy.”
The table was quiet for a moment. Dinner was done and the band in the lounge was tuning up. Wes extended a hand to Noela. “Let’s dance.”
I waited to catch Erika’s eyes again. They were clear as a Sierra lake. I said, “I’m sorry if I startled you earlier when I mentioned Rod.”
“Isn’t Rod dead?” Her voice was neutral.
“Yes. Someone put a knife into his neck. I want to find Alissa. I’m concerned about her.”
“She told me not to worry. That was two or three weeks ago. I didn’t know what she meant at the time.” Erika watched me, wary. “What’s going on?”
“This date isn’t purely social,” I admitted.
“Don’t worry about it. Guys schedule dates for all kinds of reasons. We don’t get many filmmakers. I figured you had an agenda.”
“I need your help, Erika. I need to know about Alissa.”
She sat back, then smiled unexpectedly, her lips forming a sensuous curl. “Let’s dance,” she said. “I can tell a lot about a man by how he dances.”
“Great,” I said, getting to my feet. “That helps me feel real loose and relaxed.”
The dance floor was not large. A Latin jazz combo was playing and the room was alive with sinuous motion. It was a nicely mixed crowd, old and young, chic and traditional. The young men were in form-fitting black T-shirts, the women in tight jeans, while the men with white hair wore suits and the women flared dresses. The older couples were slower but more elegant in their moves, a look of serene contemplation on their faces.
Erika and I plunged into the writhing crowd. Noela was teaching Wes how to samba. I laughed at his attempts to make his hips move like hers. Then I tried it myself and found out how hard it was. Erika didn’t seem to mind. Her skirt swung in a nice counterpoint to her waist. We were carried along by the music, caught up in the motion. With each number we got a little closer, touched a little more often, until together we were making up our own version of the rhumba or whichever style was being played. The longer I danced, the less it seemed to matter whether I was following the rules.
When the band went into a slower number, I put my arm behind her back and we fell into an easy two-step. “It’s fun to dance with you,” she said.
“The only problem is the messages between my brain and my hips go astray. What does that tell you about me?”
“You dance from the heart. You don’t pretend like you know it all. It’s not your fault your hips are tight. That’s how you were raised.”
I moved in a little closer. “So there’s hope for me?”
She threw in a little twist, and our thighs brushed. “It’s never too late. You just need a few lessons.”
We came closer yet. I felt the heat of her body through her clothes, the dampness of her back, her shape undulating with mine. Her head rested on my shoulder and I drifted with the music until I realized that might be just what she intended, leaving the question of Alissa to go unanswered. I started to speak but then took in a whiff of her hair and put it off a little longer.
When the number was over, she pulled back and checked her wrist. She must have an internal clock, I thought, because it was five minutes to twelve. The date was scheduled to end at midnight.
“You’re about to turn into a pumpkin,” I said. She gave a nod. I pulled her closer as the music began again. “What about Alissa?”
“Not here.” Erika nodded at Noela, who was still dancing with Wes. “She wouldn’t rat on me, but I have to be careful about this. Really careful.” She moved a little closer. “I am worried about Alissa, though.”
“Can we meet tomorrow?”
Erika made some mental calculations and said, “I’ll be shopping in Union Square in San Francisco. Meet me at the Rotunda Restaurant at the top of Neiman Marcus. You know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Come at noon. I’ll get a table. But we have to have some signal I can give you in case it’s not okay.”
I thought for a second. “How about a scarf? Put it on if it’s not okay.”
“All right. All right, that’s good. It’ll be a red scarf.” She put her eyes in front of mine and added, “I’m taking a big chance, Bill. If I’m wearing the scarf, leave.”
The song ended. We clapped, then I bowed and kissed Erika’s hand. She laughed and clicked back into associate mode. She found Noela, hooked arms with her, and thanked Wes for a wonderful evening.
“Can’t we buy you a nightcap?” he said, scrambling to keep the date going. Midnight had snuck up on him. “How about a ride home?”
“We have our own car,” Noela said. “Good night. Thank you.”
We stood at the edge of the dance floor, waving good-bye. The only thing left was to repair to the bar for one last drink.
“Damn, Billy,” Wes complained. “I was making progress.”
“You mean with the dancing or the dating?”
“Both, I’d say. Noela was warming up.”
“She timed it that way. I hope you didn’t ask her about Alissa.”
“No, I just tried to find out about the agency. She said she likes her job.”
“They’re both good at it. I wonder if Erika’s really going to meet me for lunch tomorrow or if she’s just setting me up.”
Wes narrowed his eyes at the news, then broke out into a grin. “You dog. Did she say whether you have to pay for it?”
I looked into my glass. “I’m sure I’ll pay for it. One way or another, I’ll pay for it.”
14
The elevator took its time rising to the fourth floor of Neiman Marcus on Union Square. I half expected to find Gary at the top, ready to teach me a lesson. The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Rupert and Trisha hadn’t known about the date last night. They’d been ahead of me every step so far, especially in putting their spin on Rod to the police. My jaw clamped as the elevator opened. If Erika showed up, it was probably only to lure me on.
The restaurant was near the top of the store’s grand multi-tiered rotunda, with fluted columns rising to a lavishly decorated glass dome. Great windows looked out over the city. A small circular bar, set a few steps higher than the restaurant, was the first stop. The bar was jammed with people waiting for tables. I heard some Texas drawls and noticed a number of well-coiffed older men trolling for new catches.
I didn’t cat
ch sight of Erika’s straw-blond hair until I turned the corner of the bar. She stood stiff and straight, letting the trollers know she wasn’t available. Her neck was bare except for a small locket. She was fingering the scarf near her waist. I moved in quickly before she decided to put it on.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
“Whatever you do, don’t act like we’re on a date.”
“You got it. This is a business meeting.”
“Could you tell the hostess we’re ready for our table? It’s under my name.”
We were taken to a small table hidden behind a column. The hostess smiled at Erika and said, “Is this is the one you wanted?”
She nodded. The table was hidden from the entrance and from most of the restaurant. A bowl of consommé was placed before us. After a few discreet glances, Erika settled a little more at ease into her chair. She opened the menu and said, “I always start with a champagne cocktail.”
Her voice was different than last night. It was faster, sharper, carrying a hint of disdain. She wore a close-fitting sleeveless top that stopped just above her belly button, and low-riding, hip-hugging pants. Her eyes seemed oddly luminous, and then I realized they were a different color than last night. She was wearing blue-tinted contacts. Her lipstick today was strawberry; last night it had been clear. The nature-girl image had been replaced by an air of glamorous caprice.
A waitress came to take our order. Erika got the lobster club on brioche. On her recommendation, I started with the lobster bisque. My plan was to continue ordering as needed to keep her at the table.
“This room is amazing,” I said. “I’ve never been to Needless Markup before.”
She pressed her lips together: She took the place seriously and didn’t appreciate the nickname. I myself had never presumed to shop here. I corrected my error by raving a little more about the rotunda, then got down to business. I described my relationship with Rod, our first discovery that Alissa was missing, and Rod’s eventual revelation that she worked for Silicon Glamour. Erika said she’d never met Rod.
